


Ignatius

by RonsGirlFriday



Series: Perfectly Imperfect Percy [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Gen, POV Percy Weasley, Percy Weasley-centric, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-01 06:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21416578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonsGirlFriday/pseuds/RonsGirlFriday
Summary: The lost sheep. The prodigal son.A sinner who might be a saint.Banner by flyaway @ TDA.
Series: Perfectly Imperfect Percy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1543966
Comments: 13
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The completed story will be 4 chapters long. I have written all of them; I am just making a few revisions before migrating all chapters over from HPFF. All 4 chapters should be up in short order!

> _"Go forth and set the world on fire."  
\--Saint Ignatius of Loyola_

He should have gone home when he had the chance.

Though, would it have made a difference? He sometimes stopped to ponder this. Maybe it was actually safer this way. Yes, he was isolated, and easier to control for it. Yes, he lived under constant threat. He had nobody to depend on. But perhaps his vague allegiances were helping to keep his family alive.

That was what he told himself, anyway, in his darkest hours.

Percy was quite good at justifying things these days. Actually, he was quite good at justifying things, full stop.

It was going to drive him mad, thinking about this. It was pointless and unconstructive. It was impossible to guess how things would have gone. Dwelling on what might have been only made things worse. So he tried to avoid it, the way he tried to avoid thinking about what his mother might be cooking for dinner that night, or how his sister was doing at school, or just trying to remember what it felt like to not be so alone and utterly lost.

He was ashamed to admit he hadn’t seen it coming - not until it was too late, at least. Who would have thought it was that easy to cripple the Ministry? Weren’t there supposed to be goddamned safeguards in place to keep these things from happening? Millennia of evolving systems of government and they still hadn’t got it right.

It seemed he had made the unfortunate choice of building his house upon sand, and the foundation had eroded away while he wasn’t paying attention. He put his faith in something that failed him - and this, if he were being perfectly honest, really pissed him off.

It was impossible enough to admit when the Ministry had been wrong. Now it seemed it was just Percy who’d been wrong. And impossibility aside, it was simply too late to try to set everything right. He didn’t dare try anything now.

He was left a free agent when the old Ministry fell. It was anyone’s guess where his loyalties lay. He’d only ever been a bureaucrat, not a Death Eater. He knew they knew that. So even though he hadn’t spoken to his family in two years, he was still a threat.

It was all very easy to speculate about this in retrospect - it seemed so obvious now - but in reality, he had to do some quick thinking on the day he arrived at work and discovered that something was very wrong.

After the fact, he would realize that something in the air was not right - that the people milling about the Atrium that morning were speaking more softly than usual and that the tension was stifling. But the nuances of atmosphere were not Percy’s _forte._

No, what caught his attention was the Fountain of Magical Brethren - or rather, something that was formerly the Fountain of Magical Brethren but was now… well… what the hell was it? Something insane and grotesque and just plain _wrong._ He came to an abrupt halt, leather soled shoes slipping against the tile floor, and almost lost his footing. Looking around to make sure nobody had seen, he noticed several other people regarding the new statue warily, but silently.

_Don’t act surprised._ That was important. That much was clear to him.

He appraised the statue as one might a mildly interesting piece of architecture. It was disgusting, and he was rapidly working out in his mind exactly what it meant in practical terms, but he kept a look of academic interest on his face.

“Impressive, isn't it?” came a voice over his right shoulder.

Percy turned to see Yaxley, who was watching him in such a careful way Percy knew he’d be stupid to even think about disagreeing with the opinion.

“Masterful, sir,” he said evenly.

Arms crossed, Yaxley stepped forward until he was standing a little too much in Percy’s personal space, but now looking up at the statue, nodding in appreciation of Percy’s comment. Without taking his eyes off the statue, he spoke again.

“Things are going to change around here, Weasley.”

_Better benefits, sir?_ was the dry response Percy wanted to give, but he bit his tongue and settled for a politely puzzled expression. This was going to be a tiresome game to play. Percy knew that Yaxley knew that Percy wasn’t this stupid.

Yaxley was silent for a moment before turning to Percy again. “I’ll see you shortly. We’re going to be doing some… redistributing.” With that, he walked off.

As far as Percy could gather, “redistributing” either meant administrative reassignments or some sort of gruesome torture method.

The conversation achieved its purpose. Percy knew right away he would have to be very careful. He had never been skilled in the art of subtlety and keeping his head down, but he was going to have to be a quick learner.

“Redistributing” turned out to mean that Rufus Scrimgeour had resigned (Percy didn’t believe that for a second) and the new Minister was bringing in a new support staff. In the small world of Percy Weasley, this meant that he was given some new, vague, nonsensical job title and stuffed into a tiny closet that housed a desk and a lamp. His job was apparently to do whatever was asked of him by any of the Minister’s staff or Heads of Department, and ninety-nine percent of it was pointless, tedious, and almost certainly an inefficient use of time and resources. A distinct amount of effort seemed to have been made to keep him miles away from important information.

But every once in a while, something interesting would cross his desk, sometimes by “accident,” and he began to think certain information was being deliberately revealed to him. Was it a coincidence that only the “C” list of Muggle-borns who had failed to present themselves for registration - which included the name Clearwater - had been misdirected to him?

“Was I supposed to do something with this, sir?” Percy asked flatly, holding out the document to one of the Minister’s assistants.

“Hmm,” mused the man - Jugson was his name - “No, no, we’ve got someone else handling these problems.”

Percy tried not to dwell on what the phrase “handling these problems” was supposed to mean. He walked stiffly back to his office, shut the door, allowed himself to hyperventilate for a minute and a half, and then resumed the important task of keeping his head down.

A lot of people were keeping their heads down these days. He noticed it particularly after about a week. Everyone realized, as he did, that things were just not right. The sudden policy changes. The openly declared manhunt for Harry Potter. The fact that you had to get to work via toilet.

Percy found that last one aptly symbolic. So there was some poetic value, at least.

But his morning walk to the newly designated entrance happened to take him right past a church. It nagged him silently. He hadn’t been in three years - well, once, at Christmas. He hadn’t confessed in four. He reckoned if he went back now, he’d have to be there for hours. He had plenty to talk about. And really, who had that kind of time anymore?

So he kept walking past it.

Some days he thought that maybe his mother had been right. Maybe it could have made him feel better. Maybe he would have felt more peaceful. Maybe even less alone.

But other days he just couldn’t bring himself to believe those things. They were nice thoughts, but any person who lived in the real world knew that faith wasn’t always enough. It didn’t mask unfairness. It didn’t stop the disappearances.

And then there were the Muggle-born interrogations.

On the fifth day of the interrogations, he was ordered to fill in as court scribe. The air in the courtroom made his skin crawl, and he forced himself not to look up at the swarming dementors. In the seat next to him, Dolores Umbridge was talking about something ignorant and nonsensical, and Percy gave a few vague nods to appease her.

He didn’t really know what to expect. It would be a total kangaroo court, he was certain of that. But that still didn't prepare him.

To his shock, the first accused brought in was Mark Emmens, who’d been a Ravenclaw in the same year as Percy at school. Mark’s eyes darted around the chamber before meeting Percy’s. His eyebrows raised in recognition and he opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but didn't.

Rattled, Percy dropped his gaze to the blank parchment on the desk in front of him and took a deep, steadying breath.

“Are you alright, Mr. Weasley?” asked Umbridge.

“Fine,” he replied quietly, beginning to write.

Percy didn’t look at his old classmate once throughout the entire interrogation. Just listening was bad enough. Mark’s fear was evident in his voice as he answered Umbridge’s questions about his family, his wand, his current profession. With every word he became more distraught.

He was crying by the time Umbridge ordered him taken into custody.

“I told you I didn’t steal anything! Please - ”

Percy glanced up warily and saw Mark, with his hands bound behind his back, trying to wipe his tears off on his shoulder. Mark caught Percy’s eye again and latched onto the opportunity.

“Percy, come on, man!” he pleaded.

Percy’s head snapped back down to his notes.

“Mr. Weasley, do you know this criminal?” asked Umbridge. She made a show of asking as though she found the idea completely ridiculous - but something in her tone made Percy feel she was rubbing it in his face.

Percy cleared his throat and managed, “Not really, ma’am, no.”

He could only imagine the look Mark was giving him. But Mark said nothing further as he was led from the chamber.

Percy couldn’t say the interrogations that followed were necessarily any better - but it was easier when they were strangers. He wondered how much easier it would have been if they hadn’t started with Mark. He considered whether he could have sat there with almost total apathy. He decided he could not have. Still, he hated himself for thinking about it.

Half a dozen men and women were taken away. Umbridge was forced to let one girl go because she could point to magical blood four generations back on her mother’s side - but the girl was ordered back for further questioning the following week. Percy knew they’d find a way to lock her up anyhow.

Umbridge read the last name on the list for that day.

“Grace Wu.”

Percy watched as a girl with short black hair was led into the courtroom. Her gaze was cast down toward the floor, and Percy looked away quickly before she could catch his eye as Mark had. Grace had been a Hufflepuff Prefect one year behind Percy. He recalled she was a bright girl with tremendous poise but a certain lack of self-confidence.

Grace answered Umbridge’s questions in a voice so quiet she had to be asked frequently to repeat herself.

“You were top of your class, I see,” commented Umbridge at one point.

“Yes,” responded Grace, a little more loudly, with a trace of pride in her tone.

“You cheated, didn’t you?”

“Never!”

“I don’t believe you. You are not a real witch. You stole magic, and you cheated your way through school.”

“I am a witch! What you're saying is impossible!” argued Grace. Panic now started to creep into her voice. “I studied! I earned it! Percy! You remember me!”

Percy’s hand shook as he wrote, smudging the ink.

Of course he remembered her. He had recommended her for Head Girl.

Umbridge sniffed. “Mr. Weasley?”

He couldn’t bring himself to look at Grace. “No, I’m afraid I don’t,” he said to Umbridge. He clenched his jaw and felt lower than dirt.

“But - ” Grace began.

“Miss Wu,” interrupted Umbridge, “I would suggest you stop trying to drag real wizards through the mud and instead concentrate on your own transgressions.” She surveyed Grace’s dossier. “You applied to be a wandmaker’s apprentice, I believe?”

“Yes,” answered Grace, quietly again. Percy got the feeling she was still staring at him.

“So you could attempt to steal more magical secrets?”

“No!”

“It wasn’t enough to steal one wand, was it? You had to - ”

“You’re mad! And this is - this is a sham!”

Umbridge drew a breath. After a pause, she said very sweetly, “I think we’ve heard enough from Miss Wu.”

Percy was taken aback by Grace’s reaction when they tried to take her away. She didn’t go quietly. In fact, in contrast to the placid girl he'd known, she completely and totally freaked out as the full significance of the situation finally hit her. She panicked and shouted and resisted. It was terrible to witness. Percy clenched his fists and stared more intently down at the desk.

Grace had to be Stunned before they carted her away.

“Well,” said Umbridge in a self-satisfied way, “I think we’ve accomplished a lot today. Thank you, Mr. - ”

Percy was already out of his chair. He couldn’t leave that room fast enough.

When he reached his own office, he shut the door and placed his face in his hands and told himself to pull it together. He had five minutes to himself before Yaxley barged in.

“Word is you met a couple of old friends in the Mudblood trials today, Weasley.”

Percy didn’t meet Yaxley’s eyes. “You’re mistaken, sir.”

“Am I? Well, that’s good to hear. Unfortunate associations are… well… unfortunate.” He laughed a little at his own joke. Percy didn’t so much as crack a smile.

“Now,” continued Yaxley, “I know you’re a good boy and this is a silly question to ask. But you understand I have to ask everyone.” He leaned forward and placed his hands on Percy’s desk so that his face was inches from Percy’s. “Is Harry Potter one of your unfortunate associations?”

Percy blinked. “Sir?”

While one part of Percy wouldn’t really have been shocked if Yaxley had gone around asking everyone this question, another part would have bet half his salary that the question was being targeted at specific individuals.

Anyone named Weasley, for example.

Yaxley confirmed Percy’s thoughts. “Potter has known connections to your family. You see my concern.”

Percy shrugged slightly and concentrated on keeping his face and voice neutral. “He’s no friend of mine, sir.”

Yaxley studied him for a moment.

“I have a problem, Weasley.” His voice was low and ominous. “In fact, I have several problems. You see, every person who seeks to undermine this Ministry, is a problem. And any person who makes it difficult for me to fix those problems, is just an additional problem. This creates a great deal of extra work for me - and simply put, it irritates me.”

Not once did Percy break eye contact. “I’m not sure I understand you, sir.”

“Well, let me explain it this way. Sometimes some of us - well, let me rephrase, because I’m certainly not talking about myself. _Some people_ have family trees that require… pruning. And I don’t like anyone interfering with me when I’m gardening. Do I make myself clear now?”

Percy’s face grew hot, and breathing seemed difficult. His stomach tied itself in knots. Yaxley just stared at him, waiting for an answer.

With a great deal of effort and control, Percy whispered, “Yes, sir.”

Something had been building in his stomach all day, ever since Mark was dragged into that courtroom, and he suddenly felt sick. He waited ten seconds after Yaxley had left his office, then ran for the bathroom.

He left work as early as he could manage, and walked home slowly. All he had there were four walls and total isolation - and he was feeling alone enough at the moment.

He stopped for a moment in front of the church. He could hear his mother’s voice in his head: _Confess, Percy. Pray. You’ll feel better._

Perhaps.

But, he wondered as he walked away, thinking about Mark and Grace…

Was anyone even listening?


	2. Chapter 2

Isolation had a vastly different effect on a person when it was imposed by circumstance rather than choice. In the day-to-day particulars Percy supposed his life was no different than it had been before - only now he couldn’t believe that he’d willingly brought this on himself. When at home, he went through a lot of books, stared at his blank walls for far longer than any sane person should, and spent a great deal of time inside his own head, which was an unpleasant but rather unavoidable place to be.

At work they persisted in their attempt to torture him slowly through dry, meaningless tasks interspersed with express and implied threats against his safety and that of the people he cared about. All of Percy’s energy went into appearing neutral at all times. That it was exhausting was the least of his turmoil. It took a special sort of person to stand by quietly and watch while twelve year-old Muggle-borns were dragged crying through the Atrium to be interrogated, and an even rarer person to sit there and force an apathetic expression on his face in response to remarks about the possible fates of his parents and siblings.

He went back and forth between telling himself that he had options and was just too cowardly to pursue them, and assuring himself that any attempt to change the state of things would be akin to imposing his own death sentence - and how was he ever supposed to be useful or helpful if he was dead?

But, Percy realized one day, danger and rashness had become relative terms.

He was standing in Yaxley’s office, taking notes as his superior dictated a number of new orders and assignments, when Yaxley stopped abruptly in mid-sentence, staring over Percy’s shoulder at the doorway. Percy turned to see a bald, paunchy man he recognized as a member of the Minister’s staff, poking his head into the office and looking slightly out of breath.

The man was looking at Yaxley. “We have a situation. On level ten. Urgent.”

Yaxley swore, but immediately strode around his desk and headed for the door. The other man’s head disappeared as he took off back down the corridor.

“Back to your office, Weasley,” Yaxley threw out dismissively as he followed close on the heels of his colleague.

Percy finished jotting down a few notes, took two steps out the door, then stopped, staring after Yaxley’s retreating back. Yaxley was halfway to the lifts already. A ridiculous idea caught hold of him.

“Don't be stupid,” he muttered to himself, starting for his own office again.

But he only took a few slow steps, stopping again after Yaxley had disappeared into the lift. Percy listened for a moment - everything was fairly quiet. If the situation, whatever it was, required Yaxley’s intervention, that meant anybody else important and in command would be down on level ten as well. The only people left would be subordinate staff.

He looked up and down the corridor, then turned and slid back into Yaxley’s office.

“Must be out of my mind,” he told himself. But he was resolved. Taking a deep breath, he looked up at the ceiling and whispered grudgingly, “I think I’d be willing to come to an understanding if you give me just two minutes.”

He had the good sense to summon a report from his office that was almost entirely completed, so that if anyone asked he could claim to be dropping it off for Yaxley’s approval. Then, with his heart pounding, he began looking - for what, he had absolutely no idea. Anything.

The endeavor was largely fruitless, as he knew it would be, and he became frustrated quickly. After about thirty seconds of looking through stacks containing meaningless administrative and personnel documents - very, very carefully so that nothing would appear to have been disturbed - he muttered, “Two minutes and anything vaguely effing helpful would be nice.”

But of course, there was nothing. There were a few locked file cabinets in the back of the office, but Percy wasn’t even going to think about messing with those. The powers that be would never in a million years have thought Percy had it in him to do something like this - or anyone else, for that matter - but just in case, they weren’t going to make it any easier for him. So after another minute of glancing over records of the disposal of wands that had belonged to now-imprisoned Muggle-borns, and a few cryptic notes he could barely decipher - Yaxley’s handwriting was atrocious - he gave up and decided to get out before he got himself killed over absolutely nothing.

He flipped through one last document, a list containing a seemingly random collection of names and corresponding Floo gate numbers. A few of the names he recognized, but none well enough to be helpful - and at any rate, the Floo Network was being watched.

The name Aberforth Dumbledore caught him off guard for a second. It wasn’t a common name, Dumbledore. Floo gate 3279. Gate numbers beginning with 32 corresponded with Hogsmeade. He registered this as mildly interesting, but nothing more.

He was hardly surprised to see his own name and Floo gate number towards the end of the list, just below his parents’ names, and Bill’s and his wife’s. So it was probably a list of persons of interest.

Someone coughed in one of the nearby offices, and Percy just about jumped out of his skin. Holding his unfinished report so as to look like he was studying it for errors, he strolled out into the corridor. A nice girl called Katie had just emerged from the administrative support offices. Percy knew she was a good, normal person by the way she walked with her head down and a constantly worried expression on her face.

“Katie,” he called tentatively, hoping for some information on exactly how empty the place was, “is Lou in right now?”

Another thing Percy could tell about Katie: judging by the wary way she usually looked at him, she wasn’t quite as assured of his goodness and normalcy as he was of hers. He also knew she wasn’t the only one with those suspicions. This never failed to bother him.

“Hi, Percy. No, it’s just me and Martin and J.D., I’m afraid. I don’t know where everyone else has gone.”

Percy sighed with relief and told himself he would never do anything that idiotic again.

A nagging feeling in the back of his mind distracted him for the rest of the day - like his brain had two pieces of information it wasn’t going to share with him until it had worked out how exactly they fit together. He hated that feeling. It was usually the cause of a great deal of lost sleep.

But it clicked in his head that very evening. Like all epiphanies, it came about randomly, in the middle of something completely mundane. This time, Percy was brushing his teeth when suddenly he stopped and stared at his reflection in the mirror.

_Aberforth Dumbledore... Floo gate 3279... Hogsmeade..._

“No way…” he said through a mouthful of toothpaste.

He was hit with a memory from what seemed like eons ago: Him and Penelope Clearwater dying of laughter because they’d just spotted the old man who apparently ran the Hog’s Head - and who, at a distance, looked incredibly like Professor Dumbledore - causing them to speculate jokingly about the possibility that the Headmaster was moonlighting as a barkeep.

So on the one hand there was a person by the name of Dumbledore with a Floo gate number corresponding to Hogsmeade, and on the other hand there was a man running a bar in Hogsmeade who looked like he could be the former Headmaster’s twin. Sure, it could be the biggest coincidence in the world. Yaxley could also secretly be a ballerina.

Still, it really had nothing to do with him, so Percy pushed the information to the back of his mind. But as the months passed, and his desperation increased, it seemed it was the closest he was going to get to any kind of help. It didn’t matter that the Floo Network was being watched. That’s what front doors were for, as long as you knew where you needed to go.

He knew this could end badly. It was incomplete research. Nobody in their right mind would have bet money on the outcome. It was full of uncertainties. But it was the only thing he had, and that would have to be good enough.

Besides, he assumed that someone related to Albus Dumbledore couldn’t be anything other than helpful.

As it turned out, Aberforth Dumbledore was one of the most abrasive people Percy had ever met. It took a quite awhile before he warmed to Percy - assuming he ever did, which was debatable - and he had a wholly irritating habit of calling Percy 'boy.'

“Look,” said Percy one evening after Aberforth had asked him, for the hundredth time, what exactly he wanted and precisely how much of an idiot he was, “I don’t even want information, alright? I’m not asking you for names or locations. I just want to… I don’t know, I just want to know if anything…happens, I guess.”

“What, you want to know if somebody _dies?_” Percy cringed, and Aberforth continued, “You don’t think, if that happened to someone in your family, those people you’re working for would take every opportunity to rub it in your face? You don’t need me for that.”

Percy took issue with the phrase ‘those people you’re working for.’ Technically, he supposed it was an accurate description, but he still didn’t like how it sounded.

He drummed his fingers on the bar top for a moment, so irritated he couldn’t even be bothered to think about how unsanitary it was, as Aberforth busied himself with rearranging things behind the bar. The truth was, he didn’t know what he was looking for. He hadn’t reached that point in his thought process, having focused almost entirely on how to get help, whatever ‘help’ meant. He certainly wasn’t expecting Aberforth to give him sensitive information - for all Aberforth knew, Percy might not be totally trustworthy. Percy supposed he was lucky Aberforth had continued the conversation even this far.

“Fine,” Percy said at last. “I don’t know. I’m open to suggestions,” he added sarcastically.

“Here’s my suggestion: Go home if that’s what you’re after.”

“I can’t,” said Percy through clenched teeth. He thought he’d made this perfectly clear.

“Pride’s a hell of a sin, boy.”

“It’s a lot more complicated than that.”

“What’s complicated? Memory loss? Lose your sense of direction?"

Percy glared at him, unamused.

"Doesn’t your dad work where you do?" Aberforth continued. "You know where to find him. Problem solved.”

Did he think Percy hadn’t thought about that in moments of desperation? Percy wished it were that easy - to be able to just say it the next time he bumped into his father at work, instead of pretending he hadn't even seen him:

_I want to go home, Dad. I want to go home now._

“Oh, yeah,” he replied. “Brilliant idea. Just walk up to him where everyone can see and hear and know what’s going on. Or, you know, maybe I could just pack up my things, move back, and send everyone a change of address. I see that working out well, don’t you?”

“You’ve made it fairly clear by coming here that you don’t have much to lose anymore.”

“But he does!” snapped Percy. Could Aberforth not see that, or was he just being purposefully instigative? “They all do!”

“Oh, and I suppose I don’t? You don’t think you put me in a bad position, coming in here asking for my help?”

Percy was momentarily at a loss for words. Finally, he offered, “If you’re really concerned about that, I’m sure all you have to do is tell anyone who asks that I’m just… I don’t know, some person who keeps bothering you.”

“Not far from the truth.”

A long pause followed. This seemed to be as far as they were going to get for the time being. Percy grabbed his cloak off a chair and started heading for the door, now feeling more defeated than angry.

“Hey, boy,” said Aberforth. Percy turned to look at him. “You got a sister in school here? Short little thing, redhead, sort of a pain in the arse like you are?”

Percy nodded.

Aberforth looked at him for a moment before offering quietly, “She’s doing alright for herself.”

Percy didn’t even ask how Aberforth knew this. “Thank you.”

Aberforth waved dismissively, and Percy took his cue to leave.

He was still a long way away from believing things would turn out alright - but for the first time in a long time, he had something. Aberforth was not exactly someone he would call a friend, and Percy knew better than to think this precarious alliance would solve any of his problems… but he couldn’t discount the fact that there was now at least one person in this world who knew that if he had it to do all over again, Percy would have done a lot of things differently.


	3. Chapter 3

> _"Teach us... to give and not to count the cost, to fight and not to heed the wounds, to toil and not to seek for rest..."  
\--Saint Ignatius of Loyola_

Percy had gotten used to the way he was being treated at work, almost to the point of complacency. His prepackaged responses to everything were easier to deliver, simply because he’d recited them so often - this disturbed him even though there was no sincerity in them.

This also meant that, despite his fear, he was getting somewhat careless in his responses. His “Yes, sirs” and “No, sirs” were delivered in the same manner as a man might say to his wife, “You look fine, dear,” without actually looking at what she was wearing. Still, they didn't seem to go out of their way anymore to torment him, except on those days when there was a possible Harry Potter sighting or when Percy’s boss was just in a superbly bad mood. Perhaps they figured they had him well enough under thumb by this point.

That didn’t mean, however, that they had completely given up hope looking for his weak spots.

Percy was caught completely off guard one afternoon when Yaxley, storming down the hallway in a temper, suddenly wheeled about, grabbed Percy by the front of his robes, and slammed him up against the wall.

“Hey - ” Percy protested, cut short as the back of his head hit the wall with an audible thud. Recovering from the shock, he spit out, _“What?”_ He may have been scared out of his wits, but he was now just about as thoroughly pissed off as he’d ever felt in his life.

“We’re going to be honest with each other, Weasley,” said Yaxley in a voice that made Percy think “be honest with each other” must mean breaking Percy’s fingers one at a time.

“What are you talking ab-” Percy tried to pry Yaxley’s hands off of him and as a reward got his head smacked smartly against the wall again.

“Your youngest brother was caught in the company of Harry Potter last night.”

“What’s that got to do with me?” Percy demanded before he had even registered Yaxley’s words. _Caught?_ What did he mean by _caught?_ Nothing good, certainly. Percy could hardly contain his panic, nor his anger.

“Don’t play with me, Weasley, and _don’t_ lie to me.”

“I don’t know anything about it!” Percy snapped, both confused and affronted.

“If I were you, I’d watch my tone.”

Percy bit the inside of his cheek and tried to breathe normally, wondering whether it was too late at this point to force his usual blank expression back onto his face. Yaxley watched him carefully. At last, Percy spoke again.

“I’ve…” Percy tried to make his voice calm and placating, but he probably just sounded irritated. “I’ve told you, sir - ”

“I don’t believe you.”

Well, then. There was nothing Percy could really say. What he wanted to do was to challenge Yaxley, ask him why he didn’t just do Percy in right there and be done with it. But if they’d allowed him to live this long, he’d be stupid to argue with it. So he remained silent.

After a moment of quiet consideration, Yaxley continued his interrogation. “Your parents’ house is no longer connected to the Floo Network. Can’t even find the blessed gate number anymore. The address has gone completely missing.” He held up a sheet of parchment in front of Percy’s face - it was a list of people with corresponding addresses and Floo gate numbers, but next to his parents’ names, where the location and gate number should have been listed, there were grayish smudges, like the ink had been blurred until the entries were unrecognizable - even more oddly, on closer inspection, it didn’t look like smudged ink at all, but an aberration on the parchment itself. The same phenomenon had happened with Bill’s, and Aunt Muriel’s. “Why do you suppose that is?”

Percy’s heart sank. He’d seen that happen before, and he knew what it meant. He stood mute.

“Come on. Smart boy like you, can’t work out what would be causing this? Fidelius Charm, maybe?”

“Possible, sir,” he said quietly. In fact, it was almost certain. The only thing, aside from someone very skilled at tampering with official documents, that would cause those locations to just go completely missing. Yaxley could have been toying with him, but Percy got the feeling that this was not a trick. It certainly explained why his memories had become blurry whenever he tried to think of the Burrow.

And even though Percy would not have dared to go home anyway, this realization deflated whatever remaining hope he’d held onto, because it removed the possibility completely.

He couldn’t go home even if he tried.

He knew Yaxley could see the stunned look on his face, but he hardly cared. It was probably the only thing that could keep him alive at this point, because it confirmed, once and for all, that Percy was not in contact with his family.

Having been satisfied now that Percy was completely alone and all the more harmless because of it, the regime was fairly content to leave him alone most days, except whenever someone found it amusing to make casual conversation about what was going to happen to his family. The worst part was that now, if something finally did happen to them, Percy would have no way of really knowing. Even Aberforth couldn’t help.

The day after his confrontation with Yaxley, Percy found himself sitting in Yaxley’s office, doing a fairly good job of drowning out his boss’s horrific ruminations about how the entire Weasley family was going to pay the price, until the comment about Ginny caught his full attention. She’d been causing trouble at school, Yaxley averred, but thankfully they had proper discipline at that school now, and he was happy to report that his sources told him you could hardly recognize her pretty face anymore.

Percy stood abruptly and left the office without even being dismissed. Yaxley only laughed as if he’d just heard a very good joke about a Quidditch referee, goblin, and hag walking into a bar. Percy barely held the tears at bay until reaching his own office and slamming the door.

He left work that day at precisely four-thirty - a record early departure for him - and went straight to Aberforth’s.

“This is not a good time for you to be here, boy,” grumbled Aberforth, drawing all the curtains closed.

Percy ignored the comment. “What’s going on with my sister?”

“I don’t rightly know. Haven’t seen her lately.”

Percy felt like crying again, and Aberforth regarded him warily.

“I’m not sure what you’re after exactly.”

“They told me…” He trailed off and shook his head. “Just - what do you mean you haven’t seen her?” He said it more aggressively than he meant to.

Aberforth shrugged. “I haven’t seen her. Seen some of the other kids. I don’t know, boy. Maybe she went home for the Easter holidays. I’m sorry.” But of course, there was no way to confirm that.

Percy didn’t have any response. He just turned and headed for the door, as defeated as he could handle for one day.

“I wish I knew, boy, I really do” called Aberforth in what was almost a sympathetic tone.

Percy’s feelings of utter defeat turned to restlessness and frustration in the few weeks that followed. He noticed that his father had stopped showing up at work. Some days Percy thought he might stop going, too. Just sit at home until someone showed up to end it. But then he considered the idea that they might just let him sit there for days or weeks, feeling like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. The nights he spent sitting there in silence were bad enough without spending all day that way. And as much as he hated to admit it, the Ministry was once again his best source of information. So he kept going, leaving each day as early as he possibly could, and trying to find things to occupy his time in the evenings, though he’d lost patience with nearly everything - books, music, refolding all of his clothes.

A quarter of the way through a crossword puzzle late one night, Percy just about lost his damn mind, ripping the puzzle into twenty pieces.

“Whatever the problem is, I hardly think it’s the puzzle’s fault,” said a voice from the fireplace, scaring Percy so much he swore something excellent and threw himself off the sofa and onto the floor, covering his head, whatever good that was supposed to do.

“I find that language unnecessary,” said Aberforth’s voice.

Percy peered wild-eyed over the top of the sofa at the old man’s head sitting in the fireplace.

“What is wrong with you, are you _insane?_” He looked around in a panic, expecting Death Eaters to appear through the walls. “They’re watching the Floo Network!”

“Nobody’s watching anything, boy,” said Aberforth. “They’re all headed this way.”

“What? Who?”

“Everyone.” As if that answered anything. “This is it. They’ll be here soon. Everyone’s inside the castle preparing the defenses. If you‘d like to make yourself useful, now would be the time to do it.”

“The - they’re at - they’re going to the castle? To Hogwarts? To fight?” A thought struck Percy. “Are the children out??”

“What do I look like, someone’s nanny?” And with that, Aberforth’s head disappeared.

“Bleeding useless…” Percy put his pullover on backwards, tried put his shoes on the wrong feet, grabbed his wand and a cloak, and practically fell headfirst into his fireplace, somehow winding up safely in Aberforth’s bar.

“Nice of you to join the party.” Without anything further, Aberforth pulled at a painting that hung over the fireplace, swinging it away from the wall to reveal a dark passage of indeterminate depth. “This’ll get you there - they don’t know about it.”

Percy blinked, still recovering from his shock from moments ago and trying to process all of this information. “Hello and nice to see you, too,” he said pointedly. “What, you barely talk to me for three weeks, and all of a sudden it’s, _Hello, Percy, why don’t you pop over and crawl into this dodgy tunnel?_” Receiving no response, he stared dubiously into the dim passageway. “Has this been inspected lately?”

Aberforth scoffed. “Boy, my _bar_ hasn’t been inspected in over twenty years. You think this rabbit hole has?”

“You know you’re supposed to - ”

“My God, you’re irritating. Fine, try your luck walking up to the main gates. See if I care.”

Percy looked again into the darkness, doubt and fear overcoming him, wondering what he had meant by coming here without sparing a thought for what he was getting into. He took a step back.

Aberforth was drumming his fingers on a table impatiently. “Well, man up or don’t, boy, but don’t just stand around looking simple.”

Percy shot him a resentful look and pulled himself into the passageway. Straightening his cloak and dusting himself off, he turned around and began in a dignified manner, “You know, you are the most unpleasant - ”

The door slammed in Percy’s face, and he was left in near blackness.

Percy trudged through the tunnel, beginning to panic when it seemed there was no end in sight, unable to see what lay in the darkness just outside the reach of his wandlight, trying not to think about what sort of things were crawling around in there with him. He began running as fast as he could without tripping; in the end, he hit a solid wall, barely catching himself as he was knocked backward. He could hear voices now, through the wall, which was made of wood, not dirt or stone, and he pushed at it until it gave way, sending him sprawling on the ground.

When he lifted himself from the ground and looked around him, he froze, his initial words faltering. With nearly every member of his family staring at him in shock, Percy couldn’t decide whether he wanted to throw up, run away, or sink into the ground.

But as unpleasant as the situation was, it was followed by immeasurable relief as his apology burst forth, finally freed from its chains.

And while he had always thought he would never be able to look any of them in the eye again, he found that he could when Fred extended his hand, almost as if his brother’s act had given him permission. Looking at his sister, he noticed with a breath of relief that her face, though a bit scarred, was still wonderfully intact.

His mother hugged him for what, under normal circumstances, would have been an uncomfortable length of time and would have caused any normal twenty-one year-old boy to protest. But Percy was simply happy that she still wanted to hug him, and, considering the current situation, he wondered how many more opportunities he would have to do this.

Raising his eyes to glance over the top of his mother's head, he spied his father, who was watching with an inscrutable look. Percy had believed he would never again be able to face his father, but he found once he looked inadvertently that he could not tear his gaze away. _Dad_, he mouthed, finding his voice failing him. _Dad..._

Arthur covered the distance between them, wrapping his arms around both Percy and Molly before taking Percy's face in both his hands, looking at him as though intent on memorizing every freckle.

Before long, Percy was being swept upstairs, Fred and George on one side, and Bill and his wife on the other. As he glanced back to see if his parents were following, his eyes made contact with Harry’s. The expression there was unreadable.

It occurred to Percy that he hadn’t even stopped to shake Harry’s hand or say - well, what exactly could he have said? What would have been good enough? What would ever be good enough?

_I’m sorry. I thought you were just a boy. Just a man like the rest of us._

It may have been true, but it would not have been helpful.

So Percy just nodded in acknowledgement of everything. It was an apology but not a request for an excuse. Harry nodded, too, almost imperceptibly, and with that understanding, however ambiguous, Percy turned to his brothers again.

Though they certainly had a lot of catching up to do, conversation was thin; they had other things to think about now. Fred and George soon ran off to take care of the school’s secret entrances, and Percy stood about silently, sticking close to Bill and Fleur as everyone steeled themselves for an attack.

So this was it. Percy hardly knew what to expect, though he knew enough to know he would be lucky to see the next morning. He also knew that someone like him really did not belong here. He was a kid. He was underweight, if you listened to his mother. He worked in a bleeding _office._

He was a dead man.

Percy wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready for pain, and he wasn’t ready for terror - but that wasn’t all. Percy was not ready to be judged.

“Hey, Bill,” he said at ten-to-midnight.

Bill looked over. “Yeah, Perce.”

Percy couldn’t actually look his brother in the face as he asked quietly, “What… What do you suppose really happens when you die?”

It wasn’t a very dignified question, but if there was anyone he could ask, it was Bill. A long time ago, Percy used to believe Bill knew everything. Sometimes he still believed it.

A long pause followed, and Percy noticed that Fleur was looking away, graciously pretending not to hear this conversation.

Bill could have told him to shove off and quit being so selfish for a change - that the time for self pity and cowardice was past.

Instead, Bill put his hand on Percy’s shoulder. “We’ll talk about it later, mate. Okay?”

Bill’s meaning was loud and clear: There was going to _be_ a later.

Percy couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Even after the battle had begun and he found himself repeatedly within an inch of his life but still emerging each time intact and relatively unscathed. It was, he knew, sheer luck - or something - that had caused him to hold on this long. What was 'this long,' anyway? It felt like hours, but in reality it couldn’t have been more than half an hour.

Percy was woefully out of his element, which was a more dignified way of saying he didn’t know what in the hell he was doing. There was little time to spare for thinking - his only option was to act, react, and put his trust in something greater than himself, because if one thing was certain, it was that Percy was not in control here. Each of his moves seemed barely in the nick of time. On those occasions when he wasn’t as alert as he ought to have been, someone was, miraculously, always there to watch his back.

In those rare moments when he had an opportunity to catch his breath and assess the situation, he felt more overwhelmed than when he was in the thick of things. He was tired. He was scared. He was running out of faith. He expected the worst at each moment.

But he’d taken it for granted that it would be him, inexperienced and undeserving as he was. That would have been fair, and it would have been just.

Percy’s problem was that he never could think outside the box. There were other ways to punish a person.

The wall came tumbling down, and Percy with it. Ears ringing, he brought a hand to his temple and found blood. He found his glasses - barely useful anymore, cracked and mangled as they were - pulled himself to his feet and placed his hands on his knees to steady himself. Everything hurt.

“Oh my God,” he heard Fred say in a voice full of dread.

No, not Fred. The voice was lower than Fred’s.

Ron stood ten feet away, staring at the ground, where red hair and a blue shirt were just visible over a pile of rubble. Percy dove across the scattered pieces of stone.

It was like being hit in the stomach.

The tears came the moment Percy picked up his brother’s hand and felt how limp it was. He took Fred’s shoulder and shook and shook, but Fred’s hand never gripped Percy’s back. Ron had sunk to his knees and was just staring.

Next thing he knew, he was shielding Fred’s body from the curses flying in through the hole in the side of the castle, where the wall had been blasted away. He looked around at the wreckage, up at what remained of the ceiling, out at the night sky and the jets of light soaring in at them, and he was afraid. They were in the middle of something massive, and Percy was so, so small. There was nothing he could do. He was sure he would die there.

Harry and Ron finally brought him to his senses, and he wiped his face on his sleeve, though it did nothing to stop the tears from flowing, and helped carry Fred to a safe spot.

The other boys seemed to have left, but Percy could not. He held Fred’s hand in both of his. He was trying so hard to understand how they’d gotten here.

It only seemed right to say something. But Percy didn’t know any prayers for the departed, having never had to use them before. So he said the only one that popped into his mind, which he still remembered by heart, despite a sore lack of use.

“Hail Mary, full of grace…”

He got halfway through it and suddenly found it difficult to get the words out. He forced one word at a time in between sobs and deep breaths.

“…Pray for - for - for us - ” And then his voice didn’t work anymore.

“Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, amen,” finished a low, tense voice behind him.

Percy turned and saw Ron standing there, staring not at Percy nor Fred, but at the ground next to them, looking like he was trying desperately to hold it together. He had a hard expression on his face, which was red and blotchy with exertion, grief, and anger. His voice sounded flat, almost emotionless, but Percy knew there was rage bubbling just under the surface.

Hermione, eyes full of tears, took Ron by the arm as Ron swore and kicked violently at a broken piece of stone on the floor. The stone went skidding across the corridor and struck the wall on the opposite side.

As Ron released his anger, Percy latched onto it, using it like a rope to pull himself out of the morass of helplessness that threatened to consume him.

Percy wiped his eyes and let go of his brother’s hand.

Percy killed two people that night. It wasn’t satisfying, and he wasn’t proud of it. But could it have been any other way? It was necessary, though it didn’t even come close to sufficient.

In the calm after the madness, he turned a corner and bumped into Fred, letting out a shocked stream of profanities.

“Percy, it’s me! George. It’s just me,” said George, hands up. He grabbed at Percy’s arms to calm him down. Bill and Fleur weren’t far behind him. “You seen Fred? Ginny’s with Mum and Dad in the Great Hall, we have no clue where Ron is, but we reckon he’s with Harry…”

Percy could do nothing but look at George in a useless sort of way as he concentrated on breathing evenly. Blood was smeared across George’s nose and cheek, and part of his hair was singed.

“Percy. Helloooooo?” George waved his hand in front of Percy’s face.

Bill spoke up. “Percy, if you’ll walk with Fleur back to the Hall, I’ll go with George to look for Fred. He’s probably - ”

“Fred…” Percy tried to get it out, but his chest felt constricted. He gaped for a moment like a fish out of water, and fought the urge to be sick. After looking at the ground for a moment, he tried again.

“Fred… uh…” He took a few short, shallow breaths, and finally could do nothing more than shake his head sadly and look at Bill in worthless apology.

It was Fleur who caught on first, gasping and bringing her hand to her mouth.

Bill looked away. “Jesus.”

George looked around at them carefully, finally fixing his eyes back on Percy. He looked like he was waiting for Percy to clear up some horrible misunderstanding.

Percy shrank to about three feet tall and avoided his brother’s eyes.

In disbelief, George let out a humorless laugh.

“Are you kidding me?” he demanded in a low, shaking voice, and Percy got the feeling that George would like to hit him in the face.

“George…” started Percy, backing up instinctively.

_“Are you kidding me?!”_ George yelled, and Percy never did find out whether George actually wanted to hit him in the face, because Bill grabbed the back of George’s shirt.

And Percy felt Fred die again.

And again when Bill started crying when Percy led him to the body.

And again when he witnessed his parents' devastation.

The images in his mind were as clear as any photographs ever were, his family’s cries so piercing it seemed they lodged deep in his brain where he would never be able to get them out. He slid down a wall in the Great Hall until he was seated on the hard stone floor, removed his glasses so that the entire room became a blur, and lost himself in the mingled voices and cries of grief until they became nothing but a vague buzzing in his ears. He sat, suspended in the chaos, trying as hard as he could not to think about anything.

When a silent figure sat next to him, putting its hand on Percy’s knee, Percy knew without looking that it was his father. Percy let out a shaky breath and nodded vaguely, though he hardly even knew what he meant by it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: One chapter left to go! If you are reading and enjoying, I would love hearing from you!_


	4. Chapter 4

> _"For it is not knowing much, but realizing and relishing things interiorly, that contents and satisfies the soul."  
\--Saint Ignatius of Loyola_

He’d always resented having the room next to the twins — being constantly disturbed by their noise and nonsense. His parents had never understood this imposition, the importance of being eighteen years old and utterly correct about everything.

These days, however, Percy was the self-appointed guardian of the third floor of the Burrow. Nobody so much as looked at the twins’— at George’s— door without Percy knowing about it.

Percy and Ron had formed some kind of uneasy, undefined understanding. The first time Percy heard Ron’s clumsy footfalls on the staircase, Percy poked his head out of his room and froze as Ron threw him a look, hollow, resigned, tense. Percy had only nodded at him, shut his door until the footsteps faded, and cracked the door again to listen for George’s snores.

Little Ronnie had become a man, sooner than was natural, and ever since the Battle, Percy had felt the power and anger emanating from his youngest brother and given him a wide berth. Ron typically left early in the morning and came home late at night. It never escaped Percy that Ron, whenever he headed upstairs at night, stopped at the landing and pressed his ear to George’s door for signs of life.

George’s door never opened, at least not that anyone saw. He didn’t speak and refused to come down to eat. On the very first day Percy had come across their mother, tearfully imploring George let her know what she could do — Could she bring him some food? Anything? — and Percy placed a hand on his mother’s trembling shoulder with a simple, “Let me.” Without fail, every day, thrice a day, Percy placed a tray outside George’s door and knocked to alert him. And every day, thrice a day, the tray went untouched. Still, Percy could hear occasional footsteps within the room and his brother’s snoring at night. He wished desperately to hear those explosions again, maybe to hear George destroying the inside of his room in a rage. Percy could have understood that, at least.

The twins had mastered the art of sneaking about years ago, and Percy supposed George must be leaving his room for food and other necessities when he was certain everyone was fast asleep or occupied. But this provided Percy little comfort, and after a week he became desperate.

“George?” Percy rapped his knuckles against his brother’s door, as he did every night in an attempt to coax his brother to eat something. By this time Percy, who had scarcely slept nor heard a peep from George for at least the past twenty-four hours, had grown delirious with worry.

“George!”

Silence. Ron had crept downstairs on that occasion, staring at Percy, then the door. Percy. Door. Ron didn’t open his mouth, but simply nodded at Percy to continue.

“George, I swear to God if you don’t—”

The door swung open. George’s face was pale, drawn, stoic.

“I haven’t offed myself yet, if that’s what you’re after.” His voice was flat and unGeorgelike.

Percy gaped. It was exactly what he was after, though he didn’t dare put it into words. The door swung shut firmly in Percy’s face almost as abruptly as it had opened.

“George!” Percy pounded at the door furiously until Ron caught his fist, bringing a stop to it, a muscle jumping in his set jaw.

“Leave it now,” were the only words Ron would speak to him in the span of about half a month.

Percy swallowed hard, watched Ron retreat to his own room above, and sank to the floor on the landing, staring at George’s door until he fell asleep without realizing it.

The next time he saw George’s face was at the funeral, where George took care to stay out of their parents’ line of sight as he shook his head and laughed inappropriately, mirthlessly, at the sermon. Percy had no censure for it. Fred would have hated this.

It seemed the funerals would never end. The wounds would never stop reopening and bleeding afresh. A month after the Battle, on a clear day in early June, hundreds gathered at Hogwarts to remember together. The castle was a shocking sight, a modern ruin standing stark against the bright sky, more melancholic now, somehow, than when it was surrounded by darkness and smoke. Even magic couldn’t mend this damage so quickly.

Percy had almost stayed home, under the guise of being with George, who was also refusing to go. But his conscience wouldn’t allow it; Percy owed this to too many people.

He mainly looked at the ground. Each of these gatherings wore on him progressively, as though his very skin grew more and more threadbare, threatening to spill everything inside of him. He was too weary this past month to cry, to yell, to do anything more than bring those trays of food up and down the stairs - but there was an agitation in him that threatened to expose itself whenever he heard Fred’s name spoken aloud, whenever he saw his father’s perpetually red-rimmed eyes, whenever he was forced to listen to all this talk of _passing on_, of _being in a better place_. Every single person still breathing was in absolute hell. Oddly enough, Percy managed to contain the unknown within him by looking to Ron, imagining himself in a sort of absurd, unhealthy competition with his youngest brother to contain their feelings.

He couldn’t crack first. He didn’t deserve to. This wasn’t about him, that much was clear to him. This was not the time for the rest of the world to tolerate his weakness.

He wondered whether he looked anywhere near as homicidal as Ron did these days.

He wondered when the darkness would leave Ron, and George. He wished he could take it from them both.

He thought involuntarily of Fred, wholly devoid of darkness and smiling even as he —

Percy chewed his lip and scanned the crowds gathered at Hogwarts as a distraction. Spotting a familiar mop of curly chestnut hair, he froze. The eyes under the curls stared back in distrust. Drawing a steadying breath, Percy cautiously approached the stocky young man.

Mark Emmens was accompanied by a blonde girl about their age, holding a baby who couldn’t have been more than a year. Mark, who Percy now saw wore a ring on his left hand, muttered something to the girl, whose eyes widened in understanding before she scurried off with their child.

Mark stared up at Percy, waiting for him to speak.

“Mark,” stated Percy at last, rather lamely. His former classmate remained silent. Trying to force a companionable smile, Percy asked, “Is that your family? They’re — ”

“What do you want?” Mark cut across him.

“I’m — ” Percy swallowed. “Mark, I’m...I’m sor — ”

It was appallingly insufficient, and they both knew it. Mark interrupted Percy with a mere look, an angry flash in his eyes.

Percy tried another tack. “Have you… have you heard anything about Grace Wu?”

Mark may as well have hit him with a Stunning Spell: “Grace didn’t make it.”

Mark seemed to enjoy the expression on Percy’s face as the latter’s chest threatened to utterly explode. The curly-haired boy paused a moment before adding tersely, “Give my condolences to your parents. He was a good one.” Then, turning on his heel, he was gone.

Percy went to the garden that night, after he was certain everyone was asleep. His room was suffocating, and there were no answers on its ceiling or walls. He sat on the wooden bench furthest from the house, closed his eyes and removed his glasses, biting absently on one of the temple tips, his mind running wild, unable or unwilling to focus.

She snuck up on him silently, her soft step muffled by the grass, and Percy distracted by the chirping of dozens of crickets. He felt her sit beside him before he opened his eyes. He smelled her, all powder and soap, so familiar, and felt her warm hand on his knee. He blinked his eyes open and then squeezed them shut again.

“I’ve been neglecting you,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m sorry.”

Percy chuffed softly. For as much as he knew his mother was suffering, the truth of the matter was that she, as always, was single-handedly keeping this family running. For Molly Weasley to accuse herself of neglecting anybody was laughable. Percy was simply not where her attentions should be focused right now.

He knew he should respond, knew it was rude to stare straight ahead and not at her, but couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes. He gave a little shake of his head as though to wave away her concern.

“You’re a good boy, Percy. You always were.”

How did she do that? Read his mind.

He shook his head more firmly, brow furrowed, but she continued.

“I remember the only time you were ever caught using magic outside of school. You were thirteen. The twins had bewitched a broom to take Ron too high and he got stuck in that tree. You could have fetched me, but you got him down. You were worried he’d fall.” She paused. “It was most impressive magic for your age.” That part she said with unmistakable pride, though Percy distinctly recalled at the time she was furious at the risk he had taken. It may well have been the only time she ever chastised him.

Percy’s mouth twitched and he pinched the bridge of his nose, recalling the antics of that day. “He could have broken both his legs and his arms,” he said, almost as much to himself as to her.

“Ah, well. We mend.”

Percy’s knee had started shaking of its own accord. He pressed his hands together, squeezing and twisting them fretfully. The pressure in his lungs rose to an unbearable peak. The things he needed to say to her — to everyone — could fill a book but he couldn’t form one sentence.

“Percy, look at me.”

It almost broke free then, but he pressed his lips together as tightly as he could manage and gave a terse shake of his head.

She ran her fingers through his hair, just above his ear, in that soothing way she’d always had, the one he’d never really appreciated. The sob rose in his throat and he held it there, eyes squeezed shut, face screwed up, and Jesus, even his lower lip was starting to protrude.

“Percy.”

It defeated him - her voice, his name, the pain in his chest, the night. His sobs burst forth, violent, shuddering, awkward, with not a thought for his dignity. They were the sharp, staccato sort, the ones that hurt even more coming out than when they’re kept in.

He hadn’t cried like this since he was nine.

And just as the cries were wrenched from him against his will, so were his words, escaping in short, hyperventilating bursts.

“Moth— Moth— _Mum!_” The informal term of address tumbled out of his mouth like an escaping prisoner. “I couldn’t— I couldn’t— I— I tried— I— “ His voice cracked like a boy’s and he buried his face in his hands. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know— what— to— do— ”

He wasn’t even sure what he was saying or what he was referring to.

Everything. He was sorry for everything.

He continued in this vein, utterly incoherent, as Molly wrapped her arms around him, drew him to her chest and held him there. She stroked his hair and made soft shushing sounds. His tears saturated her blouse. Snot, too. It was a dignified scene.

“It’s my fault,” he finally whimpered into her sleeve in exhaustion, his fit having drained him until there was nothing left. “It’s my fault.”

“No,” she replied simply.

She pulled back then, framing his face with both of her soft hands. He knew he looked a mess, and she chuckled in that fond, indulgent way mothers do. Before he could stop her, she was wiping his eyes and then under his nose with the backs of her bare fingers, like he was a kid.

“Oh, God, Mum.” He pulled back and dried his nose on his sleeve, laughing for the first time in what felt like years. Embarrassed, but laughing.

Sighing to steady himself, he glanced up towards the darkened window of his own room, beyond which lay George’s. He knew George couldn’t have seen them at this spot in the yard, but still: what a scene to be making when…

“He’ll be alright,” Molly murmured, stroking his hair above his ear again. “We all will.”

Percy shook his head. “How can you know?”

“We have to be. We’ll take care of each other.” She leaned forward and made sure to look into his eyes as she added, “That means you, too.”

Percy did not respond. He did not know how.

Molly kissed his forehead. “This house was dark without you, Percy.”

His tears started afresh.

She held him there, under the stars, until a chill in the air drove them inside, and then she tucked him into bed and sat there with him, humming and running her fingers through his hair until he fell asleep. Percy protested this halfheartedly, but she insisted. Percy drifted to sleep with his jaw unclenched for the first time in months, surrounded by the scent of powder and soap.

“George, breakfast!” Percy announced, placing the usual tray outside George’s door.

He was pleasantly surprised when George groaned, “Piss off. It’s seven.”

Percy zipped up his jacket as he descended the stairs. His mother, just emerging from her room, was surprised to see him.

“Percy, you’re up early!”

He kissed her on the cheek. “I have to go out. I’ll be back later.” He hurried off before she could say another word. If he didn’t go now, he might never.

In town, Percy paced back and forth in front of the old stone building, his hands in his pockets, muttering to himself like an absolute madman. He sat on a rickety bench, watching others come and go. Over and over, he ran through the list in his mind of everything he needed to admit. Rehearsing.

As if he could forget any of it.

He almost turned tail and went back home. He hardly knew if he even believed in any of this anymore.

But then, Percy had been wrong before.

Drawing a breath, Percy ascended the steps and entered the church, half expecting to burst into flames as he did. Mind running a million miles a minute, he dipped his fingers into the holy water and crossed himself without even recognizing he was doing it, sheer muscle memory taking over, before jamming his hands back inside his pockets. It was quiet, almost empty at this moment, and he stopped, hesitating again, staring dubiously at the booth.

He’d always hated confession. He supposed he shouldn’t have thought so and was irritated that he now had another item to add to the list. While it was true he’d never had to spend nearly as much time in the confessional as any of his brothers growing up - having been easily the most obedient, the most dutiful, the most afraid - the fact of the matter was, even Perfect Percy was unable to be perfect all of the time. And what Percy had always feared, even more than knowing he’d done something wrong, was the idea of someone  
_else_ knowing he’d done wrong. Because, somehow, that made it more real.

Percy’s fears had changed a lot in recent years. And he was done running and hiding.

With a final, resolute shake of his head, Percy opened the door and sat, concentrating on keeping his voice steady.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: If you've been reading, I'd love to hear what you think in a review! I have loved writing this story._

**Author's Note:**

> _Religion in HP is the subject of some debate, but for this particular fic I have drawn inspiration from Percy's middle name. Religion is a theme and in no way meant to be preachy. Thank you for reading!_


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